


the hell outside's kept away

by rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21607456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: “How did it go with Bairasha?” Eranil asks, lifting a corner of the blanket and quickly tucking himself in beside Za’jhan-Dar. “Don't worry about the fire. I carved some runes into the fireplace to make sure it won't burn wild while we're sleeping. I hope the owners of this place don't object to a little vandalism.”“You exclusively use Daedric runes,” Za’jhan-Dar says, laughing quietly. “In this day and age, it would be difficult to find anyone unopposed to that. And, to answer your question, it went well, for such an unexpected visit. This one will admit he cried. And so did Bairasha.”
Relationships: Original Character/Original Character
Kudos: 3
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	the hell outside's kept away

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [HopeStoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller) in the [Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Holiday_TES_Fanfic_Fest) collection. 



> what did i learn from writing this fic? i'm bad at fluff.
> 
> honestly not sure if this deserves its T rating, but it's better to be safe i guess. i'm just horrible at tagging fics.
> 
> hope you like it! this one fought me a little in the beginning X)
> 
> fic title is from the song "olympic airways" by foals

“How did it go with Bairasha?” Eranil asks, lifting a corner of the blanket and quickly tucking himself in beside Za’jhan-Dar. “Don't worry about the fire. I carved some runes into the fireplace to make sure it won't burn wild while we're sleeping. I hope the owners of this place don't object to a little vandalism.”

“You exclusively use Daedric runes,” Za’jhan-Dar says, laughing quietly. “In this day and age, it would be difficult to find anyone unopposed to that. And, to answer your question, it went well, for such an unexpected visit. This one will admit he cried. And so did Bairasha.”

“Good tears?” Eranil asks.

“ . . . Yes, he thinks so. It was difficult for Za’jhan-Dar to talk sometimes. He hadn't realized how much he missed her until he finally got to see her again. And in Anvil of all places. Did you know, she still calls this one ja’khajiit?” Za’jhan-Dar says. “Even though Za’jhan-Dar is all grown now. Taller than Bairasha, even.”

Eranil hums, presses his face into Za'jhan-Dar's shoulder. “Is that a problem?”

“Hmm. No,” Za'jhan-Dar decides, threading his claws through Eranil's fine hair. “It just makes him sad. He does not understand. Bairasha is like a second mother. Za’jhan-Dar loves her so much, but to see her now makes him want to hang his head, to avoid her gaze.”

“I think you've done so much since Ayirra moved to Chorrol,” Eranil says. “So much for so many reasons, that you feel like a completely different person. But you still want to be Bairasha's little ja’khajiit. You’re afraid you can’t live up to her memories of how you used to be.”

Za’jhan-Dar sighs slowly, lets go of all the air in his lungs before drawing it back in, soaking in the smoky scent of the fireplace in the corner of their inn room.

Eranil knows him so well, always knows what to say. Just the thought of that fills Za’jhan-Dar with so much love that he has to wrap his arms around Eranil and pull him closer, closer until the lines between them begin to blur, or maybe that’s how sleepy Za’jhan-Dar is, or the warmth of the room muddling his senses, the blankets wrapped tight around the two of them and he can’t focus on anything but the two of them.

Eranil hums contentedly.

They lie there in silence for a while, just being near each other, breathing against each other, there with the knowledge that they’re alive, real, nothing they’ve been through has killed them yet.

“We’re going by Kvatch tomorrow,” Eranil reminds him, voice barely above a whisper. “Will you be okay?”

“He will,” Za’jhan-Dar says. His words are slurred slightly, a testament to how tired the day’s travels have left him. Here in this room, where only the two of them exist, the memories of Kvatch are smothered, wrapped under so many layers of time and distance. “At least, he thinks so.”

A long time ago he and his mother, Ayirra, had climbed up the winding path to Kvatch. She had wanted to leave him behind, back with the other evacuees, but he’d descended into such a blind panic that she given in, had woven her strongest protective wards around him and told him to stick close. The closer they had gotten, the hotter the air had become, the redder the sky had bled, until the two of them reached the Oblivion gate in front of the ruined city, met the heavy blank stares of the guards. All of them had been at the end of their ropes, crushed under the weight of their citizens’ hopes and expectations. Ayirra had taken that burden from them, had smiled, had charged into the Oblivion gate and come back with victory singing at her heels.

The waiting had been the worst part. Not knowing if his mother would come back, not knowing if he would have to make the trip back to Bravil by himself or worse with a stranger—but that is gone now.

The memory still stings if he’s in just the wrong kind of mood, still opens up a dull ache inside his chest, but more than that are the memories of all that had come after—trekking across Cyrodiil, existence all around them ripping open by the seams, fire pouring out of Oblivion itself. And always the waiting, whenever Ayirra had gone into those gates, the waiting and the darkness and the smothering sky-fire—Clannfears nosing around in the bushes where he sat, alone, afraid, Daedroths tilting their heads back and roaring at the sky—until his mother had had enough. She’d marched him straight back to Bravil, left him with Bairasha, grew him up under her watchful eye.

And it is so far away now, dulled by a better life.

“Are you sure?” Eranil asks softly, snuggling impossibly closer to Za’jhan-Dar.

“This one is sure,” Za’jhan-Dar confirms.

“Okay,” Eranil says. “I love you.”

“This one loves you too,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

"Really. I love you so much. I don't know what I would do without you," Eranil says, looking up into Za’jhan-Dar’s eyes with so much love that Za’jhan-Dar can’t help but to press their foreheads together and sigh. “I'm glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we’ve made it this far. Even if we are always traveling. Even if we have to stay in a different place every night.”

“He knows. He feels the same way,” Za’jhan-Dar says.

For a while they fall into another comfortable silence, doing nothing but each of them basking in the other’s presence, until Eranil whispers, “Goodnight,” and Za’jhan-Dar echoes him, and they fall asleep in the warmth and the safety and the realness of another forgettable inn along the Gold Coast.


End file.
